Birthday Surprise
by TraditionalGaily
Summary: In which Buccellati tries to treat Abbacchio for his loyal services and ends up traumatising him.


_Summary:_

_Abbacchio's birthday is coming up.  
Good thing now the average member of Team Buccellati can't handle a calendar; Abbacchio sees no point in celebrating one more miserable year added to the list, anyway.  
Buccellati remembers of course and surprises him.  
For lack of better words it is a surprise.  
And it has a hot water bottle placed inside it.  
For matters of cosiness, obviously. _

_In which Buccellati tries to treat Abbacchio for his loyal services and ends up traumatising him. _

* * *

"...almost infinite potential. Did I tell you how I can change the texture of the zippers placed on objects? Funny how I've realised it only recently..."

Abbacchio wasn't really listening to the burlesques Buccellati told while working through the odds and ends piled up on his desk.

They've been on a mission for five days and so there was plenty of unfinished business greeting Buccellati upon their return. Things that needed sorting through before they were sorted out. Abbacchio kept wondering how Polpo had handled this before Buccellati's take-over.  
Something about sandwiching files between two slices of bread so Polpo would take an interest in them. And given it was Buccellati who had told the story, Abbacchio wasn't too sure whether he was joking or not.  
The guy had a strange concept of humour.  
And issues.

Anyway Abbacchio hadn't joined him in the office on Libeccio's first floor for a bit of small talk while lending a hand. (A hand that could copy Buccellati's scrawled signature, mind you.)

In his defence, Abbacchio had worked his way through six piles before surrendering.  
But apparently Buccellati enjoyed someone keeping him company while he worked frantically through sheets and files.  
And bubbled over with things to tell that were of no interest to Abbacchio whatsoever.

A far too domestic image formed in his mind.  
The overly enthusiastic attention seeking housewife with her burned-out husband flattened out on the couch longing for that ten minutes of tranquillity after a long, hard day.

Surprising himself it was a pretty sexist image.  
But that was probably Moody Blues' doing.  
Stupid thing got all his knowledge of marital life from old movies playing in the background at their hide-out.  
(Why was the TV running day and night, again? Ah yeah, something about harder to listen in on. Or so the neighbours would stop asking questions about the bunch of monkeys they were hoarding. It was Narancia actually, but Buccellati found it too hard to explain...)

Anyway Moody Blues had gone a bit ahead of himself after he had fucking exchanged fucking rings with fucking Sticky Fingers after fucking...  
Yeah, that was pretty much it.

In Abbacchio's opinion Stands should come with a manual. Somewhere he could look up 'How to stop your Stand's cravings for domesticity'.

Furthermore, this was definitely a chaise lounge he was sitting on and not a couch.

Abbacchio kept staring outside the window while Buccellati went on about zippers and their usage in combat boring the former to tears.  
But it was nice looking at Buccellati while he was talking.  
It soothed the arising self-loath.  
His presence did that to Abbacchio…

There was a reason for seeking out his capo's company.

Distraction, was the most fitting way of putting it.  
Why he had offered his help to Buccellati.  
A bit of a mental side track to help keeping out of the two pre-set states of Abbacchio:

a) pissed or  
b) pissed off for not being a)

It had been a bad week for him so far and surprising himself, there still were ways to make his life a living hell. More than it was already, apparently.  
And mercilessly closing in on him came the weekend.

A specific one.

The one that has the 25th on a Sunday.

Of March.

His birthday.

A heartfelt sight later Abbacchio grew aware of the suddenly quiet room with his capo's eyes resting on him.  
Encouraging Buccellati to tell him more about the advantages of plastic teeth in zippers got him off his back and he continued his idle banter while Abbacchio drowned in melancholy.  
(Abbacchio's ability to half listen through speeches was remarkable. And would one day safe his marriage. Or ruin it; he hadn't decided on that one yet.)

Aging.  
(Aging and maturing are used as synonyms. This is incorrect. Aging was done by continuing to stay alive past 00:01 the day following your birthday. Maturing was fighting the struggle of 364 days rushing at you after that.)

Aging was one thing.  
Celebrating getting a few steps closer to the grave was another.

The fugaciousness of being, Memento mori and Vanitas; Abbacchio was cool with shit like that.  
Only it lost its dark touch with a runny cake and the cacophony of 'tanti auguri a te' sung by four powerful voices in different tunes (or in Mista's case sans any).  
He needn't this disaster to repeat itself.

So, he wouldn't tell the others; that was for sure.

Not as if his birthday was a secret.  
They could just keep track of it themselves.  
But it usually took them until August to ask for the exact date and by the following March they would have forgotten all about it again.

Buccellati (calendar-keeping motherfucker) might forestall his plans of, well, doing nothing; celebrating his own misery in the soothing company of a few bottles of chardonnay and doing some hard thinking about his birth the morning after (Like why was he ever born?).  
If he was lucky he'd gotten the hint by now and would leave him in peace.

Well, three days later and Abbacchio found out that he hadn't.

It wasn't fair; until that point it had been his best birthday so far.  
A few errands here, protection money to collect there; all in all a smooth and sat back Sunday.  
Buccellati was in a good mood too and dismissed them prematurely.

Which should have made Abbacchio suspicious as fuck.

"What's going on?"

Not really the best approach at the tableau his, Abbacchio's room at the villa they were currently residing in, had been turned into.  
_title: A florist's nightmare  
materials used: petals, taper candles and satin sheets  
artist: unknown of yet_

(And for a moment there Abbacchio had wondered about the greenery strewn across the stairs leading up to his room. And suspected this to be the work of newbie Goldilocks leaving a trail for his gun wielding bear.)

Unfortunately the artist did claim this poor attempt of a romantic scene.

"Long time no see," Buccellati purred, reclining on Abbacchio's now rose petal infested bed.

Because doors are just too mainstream, Abbacchio thought.  
Fucking Buccellati and his fucking zippers.

Abbacchio still wasn't comfortable with what had happened to his room  
(How had Buccellati been able to light so many candles in so little time? Or had he come in earlier and left with them still burning? So from now on the 'F.' Abbacchio had added as middle name would genuinely stand for 'Bruno Fire Hazard Buccellati' and no longer 'Fucking'.)

Unlike Moody Blues who detached himself with an exciting whirring sound and met Sticky Fingers half way to the bed.  
Then they kissed.  
With Moody Blues lifting his leg.  
And Sticky Fingers picking him up, whirling him around.

That does it, no more classics for them.

"Oh, look at them," Buccellati cooed at their Stands getting as comfortable as a windowsill would allow.  
Humble comfort, but currently residing on cloud nine they wouldn't have minded a bed of nails.

Hm.  
So apparently a Stand was no longer able to use its User's brain after detaching.

Another unnecessary enrapt sigh turned Abbacchio's attention back to the capo shaped blockage on his bed.

Ah yes, the other thing keeping him from getting pissed.

"Why are you lying on my bed?"

Simple question.  
Yet the addressee was still delighted by the Standian tryst.

"He just loves the ring. Twirls it around his finger all the time. I can feel it too, you know…"

"Why are you lying on my bed, Buccellati?"

"It kind of tickles, though. He's still so excited Moody Blues accepted it. I bet Moody Blues does nothing but stare at it in awe when you're not looking. It's his birthstone too…"

"Buccellati!"

"Hmh?"

It was a long-drawn question and accompanied by the most innocent eyes imaginable in a 20-year old mob officer.  
In whimsical sleepwear.  
Who would have guessed he had a matching ermine patterned satin pyjama?

"What are you doing here?"

Abbacchio tried his best to sound reasonably languid and not straight up pissed off for still being sober.  
It was his birthday, he had earned the bottles and more importantly he had hid them were not even trained drug sniffing dog Buccellati could find them and his throat was uncomfortably dry.

"I wanted to congratulate you in person," Buccellati said honestly, all earnest now.

And patted the sheets next to him invitingly.  
And Abbacchio was stupid enough to obey.

God, if he starts to sing Abbacchio swore to himself he'd jump off the balcony, but other than that Buccellati simply said:

"Happy Birthday, Leone Abbacchio."

Preparing himself for the five, let's say five metre dive, Abbacchio was taken aback by the uncommonly civilised approach.

"Thank you and now..."

"I've got you something..."

Oh, the dreaded five words.

But instead of opening a zipper on himself (because carrying things with your hands was caveman style) retrieving some well-intentioned unnecessity Abbacchio would feign to be thankful for, he used the zipped open space to remove his short trousers.  
Wearing nothing underneath.

Abbacchio gulped.

"I didn't want the others to see, it's something a bit more private..."

Which wasn't a lie.

Because it involved Buccellati's privates.

And a zipper placed on them.

Abbacchio gulped again.

Mind racing with, well all sorts of thoughts (God, did those thighs look firm; Manscaping to the max, alright; Why are there no tan lines or does he possess less shame then Abbacchio would have given him credit for.)  
Bisexuality and budding Homosexuality cornering his fleeting Heterosexuality.

Wait a minute, had Buccellati been talking the whole time through?

"...er...what?"

"Leone..."

(So he had given permission to address him by his first name while drooling over his toned body, ok.)

"This is a way of me saying thank you. I know, it can be hard maintaining a steady relationship given our profession. And yes I know, I am very demanding as leader, both physically and time-related. And secretly I'm content none of you has set up their own little family as it poses a risk..."

Being remotely aware how little of his speech had reached Abbacchio's brain Buccellati cut to the chase.

"I feel responsible for you not getting any and therefore I thought you might enjoy it..."

And with that Buccellati opened up the zipper across his genitals, revealing the bubbly purple void inside.

Buccellati regarded his make-shift vagina triumphantly; Abbacchio was shocked.

"Do you like the entrance this wide, or would you prefer it to be smaller?"

"Ehr?!"

"I folded up and shaped some tissue inside so it would correspond to a real one," Buccellati explained proudly.

"How?" Abbacchio croaked.

"Needle and thread?"

Like that was any kind of explanation.  
But before Abbacchio could have said anything, Buccellati had grabbed his hands and pulled it closer to his converted vagina.

"Come on, give it a try."

"I told you about the plastic teeth I could create. They're round and soft, and frankly not as cold as metal. If anything I'd say it adds to the pleasure..."

God, look at his happy face while he says crazy things like that.

Abbacchio was grossed out.  
But also somewhat turned on and so he ran his fingers along the zipper.  
And horny, as he didn't mind Buccellati disrobing him with one well-placed zipper.

"I've put some lube inside already, you know so it gets more squishy..."

"I'm almost starting to enjoy it, so please shut up," Abbacchio panted surprising himself, but it did the trick.

Carefully he slipped a finger inside.  
And hit something solid.

"My bad, sorry..."

Cheeks flushed, Buccellati removed a ridiculously small hot water bottle from the void within.  
And looked hot as fuck, Abbacchio decided sporting a boner.  
Screw that, he was way past shame and etiquette; and knowing Buccellati, what happened tonight would stay between the two of them.  
So yeah, at least he would finally get some.

"For keeping it warm..."

"Yeah, alright," Abbacchio cut him off and sealed his lips with a kiss.  
It tasted sweeter than expected.

Buccellati's hands guided Abbacchio's cock into the entrance.

A few experimental thrusts and he decided that it felt good.  
And it was unbearably awkward considering the cheery smile from Buccellati underneath him hasn't worn off.  
God, Buccellati looked like he'd offered him self-made biscuits and was now daintily smiling over his benefactor savouring the taste.  
It didn't help that he kept humming to himself.

Abbacchio coughed.  
Eventually Buccellati took the hint.

"Would you like me to moan a little for you, then?"

'No!' Abbacchio wanted to say, but wasn't fast enough.

And there Abbacchio had been under the impression that atherosclerosis was the main cause for erectile dysfunction.  
When it was actually Bruno Fire Hazard Buccellati.

It sounded fake.  
God, Abbacchio hoped it to be fake.  
Because nothing, absolutely nothing could be turned on by a sound like that.

His falsetto screams of 'Keep going!' and 'Deeper!' made Abbacchio question what kind of porno Buccellati watched.  
Probably some starring deaf male actors.

"Too much?"

"A bit, yes, if you'd just..."

He needn't finish the sentence as Buccellati had started sighing and moaning underneath him.

Not to please him.  
But at his own arousal, as Abbacchio could feel the parted cock...anyway, he could feel Buccellati's cock twitching and hardening.  
At two places.

Why did he keep traumatising himself again?

From that point on things continued with a different timbre.  
Unabashed moans and cries (real ones, not the fake screeches from earlier) filled the room and to his shame Abbacchio had to admit, that yes; Buccellati was a marvellous lay and yes, this had been his first attempt of intimate togetherness in a while.

Which was probably why it didn't last too long.

At least Buccellati, didn't comment on that, Abbacchio thought while he lay next to his capo (all zipped up again), still panting from the immense pleasure.

It could be heightened, though, as Buccellati produced from a zipper (on a different body part) a bottle of champagne and two glasses.  
So soon the fleeting memories of what they had done and how were washed away.

"What are you looking at?" Abbacchio slurred at the two pairs of eyes (well, one visor shielded pair, one made of speakers) watching him and Buccellati reclining on the messy sheets.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say they look mad," Buccellati giggled, helping himself to more champagne.

"Oh, did we bother you?"

"No, how could we do something so indelicate right in front of them?"

"We should really be ashamed of ourselves..."

Moody Blues and Sticky Fingers turned at the mocking tone of their Users and kept staring outside the window holding hands.

Retaliation was childish.  
But despite being one year older, Abbacchio didn't feel like acting like an adult right now.

"God, I fucking hate them," he mumbled.

"Same here," Buccellati agreed.


End file.
